The Case of the Domesticated Detective
by JJJJ12
Summary: Sherlock and Molly get stuck babysitting Rosie and a precocious eight-year-old while John and his new girlfriend take a short holiday. While caring for the children and cohabiting with Molly, Sherlock realizes he wants something he never knew he needed.
1. Alfred Charles Hayes

"I need a favor."

Sherlock looked up from his work. He _had_ been running a rather tedious test on finger nails, but the arrival of John Watson with three-year-old Rosie ended that immediately. Even though John no longer resided in the flat, he still somehow maintained a strict set of rules. There were to be no body parts around the child.

 _What a ridiculous requirement._

He sighed and ripped off his rubber gloves.

"Do I have a say?" Sherlock asked, dropping onto one of the kitchen stools. He gave Rosie a goofy smile, causing the girl to let out a happy squeal.

John rolled his eyes. "Not really, no. Not if you don't want to be a shite friend."

The detective sighed and lifted Rosie into his arms. "Very well. I suppose you need me to watch this one?" His words were finished off by a prodding finger at her little belly, the motion causing the girl to let out another delighted squeal.

"Yes," John began, looking rather nervous, "But not just Rosie. It's…" He sighed and bit his lip, knowing he'd regret his words, "Lydia is going to Paris for the weekend on a work trip and she can bring me along. So, we'd like to go."

Sherlock sat Rosie on his lap and turned to John. "You're nervous John and I don't see why. I will happily watch Rosie for the weekend," He kissed the child's head and smirked, "I could care less if you spend it underneath London Bridge or at the Arc de Triomphe."

John considered his words. "Yes, well, Lydia was married—"

"Until her moderately successful actor husband cheated on her with a younger cast mate. They had one child together. An eight-year-old boy," Sherlock finished for John, smirking per usual at his own knowledge.

However, instead of responding, John gave his best mate a look. And even for the clever man, it took a few moments for the implication to process. Sherlock bolted to his feet, Rosie tucked into his arms.

"Absolutely not!" He hurried out, one arm wide in ferocious movements, "Why in heaven's name would I do that?"

John groaned. "We're in a bit of a bind, Sherlock! David was supposed to have Alfie for the weekend, but as soon as Lydia mentioned me and Paris, he decided to be a real prat and claim he was busy!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That suggests pettiness and possible unresolved feelings—"

The look John sent him shut the man up quickly. With a sigh, he continued. "Look, I'd ask Mrs. Hudson, but she's in Manchester until Tuesday. And since you have a crib for Rosie, what's the big deal if Alfie sleeps in my old room?"

Sherlock let out a noise of exasperation. "What's the big deal? You're asking me to entertain an eight-year-old boy! Rosie is easy! I make some funny faces, give her some juice, and she's asleep!"

John frowned. "Please, mate? It'd really help me out. I think this trip would be a good chance for me and Lydia to… You know…"

"Have intercourse?"

"Sherlock! Christ, I was going to say really connect, but yeah, I guess we'll shag a bit too," John responded with an eyeroll.

Sherlock cursed and dropped back to his chair, Rosie snuggling into his chest. He looked at the girl and back at John.

"I want to help you. I do. But I don't know if I feel comfortable taking care of two children."

John snorted. "Oh, mate, you think I'd trust you alone with two kids? You can't think I'm that stupid!"

"That's quite insulting—"

"I've already talked to Molly. She's happy to help for the weekend," John hurried in, giving Sherlock a look, "So, she'll help babysit you three."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I'm aware I need a babysitter. You've said so on many occasions."

John grinned. "This is great! I'll bring you back something from Paris."

"I want macarons. And none of the rubbish flavors."

The shorter man snorted. "Yes, well, we'll see. When I asked for Kit Kats when you had that case in Japan, you didn't exactly fulfill my request."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I brought you back a bar."

John scowled. "From Heathrow! If I wanted a bloody bar from here I would grab one at the shop! I meant one of the exotic flavors."

"Consider this a lesson in making specific requests, John."

"Right. As always, this was…" John snorted, "Yeah, anyways, we'll be by sometime Friday afternoon. I'll text you."

Sherlock made a noise of acknowledge and kissed Rosie's head, before handing the child over. John walked to the door but stopped to give Sherlock a look.

"Child proof the place a bit, yeah? I haven't had to yell at you about the skull or the jarred eyeballs since Rosie can't reach, but Alfie can. Don't scare the kid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, waving his friend away. John sighed and left the building, hoping his new relationship wouldn't end simply because Sherlock traumatized her kid.

xxx

Molly looked at the arrangement of toys and snacks on Sherlock's kitchen table and bit her lip. She turned to look at the detective, who instead of helping to prepare for the arrival of children, was busy texting away on his mobile. She sighed.

"This should be sufficient, right? I've got toys, some good books, snacks…" Molly groaned and bit her lip, "I wish we had some video games. Like an Xbox or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jumped to his feet. "Molly, I'm sure your purchase of half of Hamleys' showroom is plenty. Rosie will be easy, and I'm sure the boy will occupy himself with something clever."

Molly bit her lip, considering Sherlock's words. A moment passed before she broke into laughter.

"Oh, Sherlock! You think he's going to be interested in you and just follow you around, don't you?" She let out another laugh and held her hand to her chest, "Oh, you silly man!"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why is that so funny? I'm interesting. Why wouldn't a young boy be fascinated with my career?"

She snorted. "John said Alfie loves football, especially Arsenal. He enjoys reading comic books and watching films about superheroes. He does very eight-year-old boy things."

"I'm a super—"

Molly rolled her eyes and quickly interrupted him. "In your dreams, Sherlock. Now, John says they'll be arriving soon. Did you set up the guest room?"

"It hasn't been touched since last time Mrs. Hudson changed the bedding. And as usual, Rosie's crib is ready for her whenever," Sherlock replied, back to texting away on his mobile.

"Well, perfect. I have an itinerary all set up. Tomorrow, I thought we'd go to the park, then maybe catch a film at the cinema, then watch the Arsenal match here. We'll figure out Sunday based on how tomorrow goes," She flipped through a set of papers before looking back to Sherlock, "I'll probably go back to my place around 10 or so and come back in the morning around 8."

That had Sherlock's attention. He slipped his mobile into his pocket and studied Molly. "I don't follow. Why would you return to your flat?"

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Well, where else would I sleep?"

"Here. Of course."

She sighed. "Where, Sherlock? I'm not going to share a bed with Alfie. And your sofa isn't exactly in great condition."

He rolled his eyes. "You'll share my bed."

Molly swallowed and looked away, conscious of the reddening of her cheeks. She cleared her throat and shook her head.

"No, Sherlock, that's—"

He groaned and ran a hand through his curls. "We've shared a bed on many occasions, Molly. Now is not the time to be bashful."

And Sherlock was right. They had shared beds on many occasions. From the evenings where he'd use her flat as a bolthole and couldn't bear to sleep without hearing another person breathing, to the handful of cases she had assisted him with that required overnight stays, to the one time they had inexplicably been forced to sleep together in John's guest bedroom, this was certainly not a new occurrence.

That being said, Molly had never shared Sherlock's bed. The one he frequented (almost) every night.

She sighed and crossed her arms. "Sherlock—"

The sound of the door being unlocked, and a young boy had her quieting down. Sherlock groaned and rose to his feet, watching as John strolled in, holding Rosie and two small bags. Beside him stood Lydia, a smiling red-head approximately six years younger than John, and little Alfie, the eight-year-old with decent height, big brown eyes, and a head full of messy brown hair.

John smiled at his friends and dropped the bags. He ruffled Alfie's hair, before gently pushing the boy forward.

"Molly, Sherlock, this is Alfie. Alfie, these are some of my good friends. Sherlock is a detective. And Molly is…" He looked at the brunette and bit his lip, "Well, she's a doctor. You'll have loads of fun with them this weekend."

Alfie looked at Sherlock with mild indifference before glancing at Molly. At the sight of the pretty woman, he blushed and looked to his mother.

"Mummy, I thought I was staying with daddy this weekend. Why do I have to stay here?" He groaned out, stomping his foot for emphasis.

Lydia sighed and pulled her son into her arms. "Alfie, baby, we've gone over this. You'll see your father next weekend. But Sherlock and Molly have a fun weekend planned for you."

Alfie rolled his eyes and glanced back at his babysitters. He eyed the detective with contempt before looking back to his mother. "I rather go to Paris."

She sighed. "That's not an option, Alfie. Now, John and I have to catch our flight. Will you behave?"

The little boy scoffed and crossed his arms. "Why does John get to go to Paris?" He looked at his mother's boyfriend with the same disdainful gaze that he had previously sent Sherlock, "I'm your son."

Lydia crossed her arms. "Alfred Charles, you do not speak to me like that. You've been given an answer. Now greet your new friends."

Alfie pouted and trudged over to the strangers, shoving his hands into his pockets. He glanced at Sherlock and stuck his nose up.

"Hello. My name is Alfred Charles Hayes. I just turned eight-years-old. I'm happy to meet you," He announced, looking between Molly and Sherlock, "And thank you for welcoming me into your…" He looked around the flat with mild aversion, "Home."

Before Sherlock could issue a retort that would likely somehow upset the boy, Molly jumped in, all smiles. "Well, hello Alfie! We're happy to have you. Your mum made sure to tell me all about what you like to do."

At Molly's words, Alfie blushed. "Thank you, Mrs. Molly."

Before Molly could correct him, Sherlock took the chance to speak. "I'm… Equally as delighted by your arrival, Alfred. I hear you enjoy…" He glanced at John, who narrowed his eyes, and then to Molly, who thankfully mouthed the word 'football', "ah, yes, football. There will be much…." He scratched his chin and considered his words, "Football this weekend."

That got Alfie's attention. "Lots of football? Do you play?"

John snorted. "I wouldn't count on it, Alfie. Sherlock is more—"

Sherlock scoffed and looked back to Alfie. "Perhaps. But before we can do that, your mum and John need to go to the airport."

As Alfie was pulled into a hug and a hushed conversation with his mother, John approached his friends. After giving Rosie a big kiss, her handed her to Molly, and promptly turned to Sherlock.

"Promise me that you'll behave. If the kids get to be too much, just lock yourself in your room and let Molly deal with it," John groaned and ran his hands through his hair, "I really don't need our holiday ending prematurely because you scarred the poor kid for life."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Ye have little faith, John. Contrary to popular belief, I once was a young boy. I think I can preoccupy one for a few days."

John sighed and nodded. He turned to Molly. "I can't thank you enough, Molls. You're the definition of a lifesaver."

She smiled softly and waved her hand. "No worries, John. I'm happy to watch the kids. I love them."

Alfie strolled over, clutching an Iron Man backpack to his stomach. He dropped into Sherlock's chair and waved to his mom. Lydia smiled and went to the door with John.

"Molly, Sherlock, thank you again! You have my mobile number if Alfie needs anything. And no matter what he tells you, I don't allow him to drink soda. And artificial sweeteners are a no-no!" Lydia explained, glancing between her son and the pair.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course. We'll keep the kid fed well. Goodbye!"

He ushered the couple out the door. As soon as it shut, he turned and gave Molly an incredulous look. "No artificial sweeteners? What does the child eat? Dirt?"

Molly sighed. "Sherlock, it's her child. She can feed him whatever she wants."

She smiled at Rosie and moved into the kitchen, beginning to hum a soft tune. From Sherlock's chair, Alfie watched the detective. Upon noticing the attention, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Call me Alfie." The child explained, watching Sherlock with an intensity past that of a normal eight-year-old child, "And she feeds me rubbish. Like rhubarb and carrots and broccoli."

That got Sherlock to smirk. "Not a fan of your vegetables, are you?"

He shrugged. "I like chips. Daddy feeds me chips. When I stay at his flat, we eat fish and chips and drink Coke. Mum doesn't know."

Sherlock strolled over to the child. With a sigh, he sat in John's old chair, desperately reminding himself not to pick a fight with a boy over his preferred seating arrangements.

"I see. Perhaps we can have fish and chips for supper. I know a place."

Alfie grinned. "Yeah? Coke too?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "We'll see. Depends what Molly says."

At the name of the pretty brunette, Alfie climbed onto the chair, propping his knees onto the worn surface. He looked to the kitchen, watching as Molly prepared a snack for a giggling Rosie. He looked back to Sherlock, his cheeks red.

"Your wife is really pretty," Alfie began, still studying the woman, "I see why you married her."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and looked between the young boy and Molly, who had begun to feed the little girl pieces of banana. He cleared his throat.

"Well, that's a valid deduction based on the circumstances Alfie, but Molly is not my—"

Molly strolled back in, gently setting Rosie onto Sherlock's lap, effectively cutting off his correction. She smiled at Alfie and put her hands on her hips.

"So, Alfie, I thought we'd watch a film maybe?" She glanced at the young boy's bag and back to him, "Maybe _The Avengers_?"

Alfie jumped to his feet and nodded excitedly. "I'll go change!"

Before Molly could inquire, the little boy had sprinted out of the room, clutching his backpack to his chest. She laughed and looked to Sherlock, who was staring into space, albeit accepting pieces of banana from Rosie's sticky fingers.

"Rosie!" She laughed, dropping into the chair Alfie had deserted, "That was your snack!"

The little girl giggled and fed Sherlock another piece, "No. Sherwock hungie."

"Oh? Did he tell you he was?"

Rosie nodded adamantly and fed him another piece. Molly smiled at him but noticed the faraway look in his eyes.

"You okay, Sherlock? We're not even ten minutes in."

Sherlock swallowed a piece of the fruit and sat up, adjusting Rosie as he moved. He nodded and cleared his throat. "I'm alright."

Alfie raced back into the room, clad in an Iron Man costume, sans the mask. He held Thor's hammer in one hand, and Captain America's shield in the other. He groaned.

"I can't decide!" He cried out, looking between the weapons, "and Mum wouldn't let me bring my Hulk hands!"

Molly laughed and approached the little boy. She ruffled his hair and smiled at him, missing the way he studied her in pure fascination. "How about you start as Iron Man for this film, and you can change as we move along?"

He swallowed and nodded, quickly tossing away the weapons in his hands. He hurried back into his chair and plopped down, studying Sherlock curiously.

Molly disappeared into the kitchen, announcing that she'd prepare snacks. Sherlock and Alfie, however, studied one another. The detective cleared his throat, his mind, for once, on a single track.

"Alfie, Molly and I are not—"

"I like her." The boy quickly interrupted, a glint in his big, brown eyes, "And if you're smart, like John says you are, you won't let her go."

Alfie jumped to his feet and approached Sherlock's chair, watching him with a curiosity that had the older man's nerves on edge. "Don't be a dummy like my father." He sighed and climbed onto the chair, sitting on the arm, hovering over Sherlock, "He was stupid and broke up with my mum. And she's really smart and pretty."

He leaned forward, nearing Sherlock's ear, dropping his voice to a whisper. "So, don't do anything stupid to lose her. Don't be like my father. His new girlfriend is so stupid. She likes," He made a face of disgust and crossed his arms, "eating vegetables."

Sherlock blinked a few times, looking between Rosie, who had fallen asleep in his arms, and Alfie, who had practically joined him in the chair. He opened his mouth to respond, but was distracted as Molly strolled in, clad in one of his dressing gowns, holding a tray of snacks. She smiled at the group.

"You lot look comfy. I made popcorn and cut up some oranges," She set the tray down and smiled at Sherlock, "I grabbed some Flakes for you too, although god knows why that's your preference," She laughed and sat in Sherlock's now unoccupied chair, "and you can have some too, Alfie. We just won't tell your mum."

Her laughter was drowned out as she moved to turn on the telly, nodding and responding to some babbling from Alfie, who was keen to share stories about his sweets preferences and superhero knowledge. All the while, Sherlock had an unfamiliar sensation growing in his belly.

A warmth had swallowed his body whole. And as he glanced between the smiling woman who knew him so well, and the precocious little boy who was desperate for knowledge and attention, and the sleeping little girl in his arms, he discovered he was craving something he never knew he needed.

 _ **To be continued…**_


	2. The Beaver Scout & the Detective

The sun had set over the city, and only the lamps from the road filtered into the windows of the flat. Their third superhero film of the evening, this one about some American super soldier with a shield that defied the laws of physics, was now running through its credits. Sherlock was buried underneath two small bodies, his form firmly seated in John's old chair. Rosie was making delightful little cooing noises in her sleep and had taken to wrapping her arms around Sherlock's neck, her face firmly pressed into his chest.

Alfie, who had spent most of the evening filling his belly with fish fillet, chips, and Flake bars, was also fast asleep. His Captain America shield had been dropped to the floor, his arms now forming a pillow underneath his head, which rested on the arm of the chair. His body was sprawled across Sherlock's lap, leaving the detective completely immobile.

All the while, Molly was humming along to the end-credit music, picking up the discarded plates and take away containers. She glanced over at Sherlock, who was also falling in and out of sleep, and couldn't help but giggle. At the sound of her voice, he opened his eyes.

"Something funny?" He asked, his voice soft as to not wake up the children.

Molly giggled and pulled out her mobile, quickly taking a photo of the trio. She ignored Sherlock's groan and continued her clean up. "Not funny, no. Adorable, actually. I can't believe they both fell asleep on you."

Sherlock made a noise of agreement. "I suppose I'm warm."

She laughed and turned the telly off. "And you're right. Alfie does like you. You might have to give John some pointers."

He rolled his eyes. "Children happen to like me. As well as animals."

Molly had abandoned their conversation to take care of the dishes, leaving Sherlock in the dimly lit room. He glanced down at the children, bringing one hand to rest on Rosie's side, and the other to Alfie's back.

And although Sherlock was exceedingly smart, he had no idea how to move the two without waking them up. If he had learned anything from John and Mary about children, it was that putting them back to sleep after a rude awakening was verging on impossible.

Besides, he needed as much sleep as he could get tonight. He didn't fancy waking up at half four to the wails of a toddler. Thankfully, Molly strolled back into the room and stepped in front of him, grinning. She put her hands on her hips and studied the group.

"Well. This will be a challenge, won't it?" She asked, her voice teasing.

Sherlock groaned. "At least one of your legs isn't asleep."

Molly laughed softly and expertly reached forward, carefully detaching Rosie's tiny arms from around Sherlock's neck. Only mere inches from his face, she met his gaze and gulped, momentarily frozen by the proximity. Even in the dim light, he eyed her curiously, wondering why she had stopped her movements. But as Rosie whimpered in her sleep, the moment ended, and Molly carefully lifted the sleeping child into her arms.

She cleared her throat and walked towards the hall. She glanced over her shoulder to Sherlock. "I'll set her up in the crib. Just carry Alfie to the bed."

Sherlock watched her disappear down the hallway. He gulped and looked back towards Alfie, whose Spider-Man pyjamas were in sharp contrast to his own black trousers, and lifted the child into his arms. As if acting on instinct, Alfie immediately rested his head on Sherlock's chest, his arms moving to wrap around the man's neck.

He glanced down at the sleeping boy, his heart hammering in his chest. The feeling of holding such a small human being, one with such innocent views on the world, and with a pure desire to explore, and to learn, and to just live, had his stomach in knots.

And as he made it into John's old room, where Molly was currently straightening up Alfie's overnight bad, which incidentally looked as if a tornado, or in this case, an eight-year-old boy ripped through it, he was overwhelmed with thoughts about how natural the evening felt. He pulled the sheets back and carefully extracted Alfie from his hold, placing him in the bed.

The child immediately rolled into the pillow, slumbering as if he hadn't just moved furniture and rooms. Sherlock let out a breath of relief and pulled the blanket back, taking a moment just to watch the child sleep.

He wondered what, if anything, the child was dreaming about. Did he fancy himself a super hero? A pirate? A race car driver? Was he saving the world, or discovering a cure for cancer, or wooing a beautiful princess?

Something in his chest tightened, leaving him momentarily breathless. But, before he could reflect on the feeling, a warm hand grabbed his own. He met Molly's gaze and swallowed.

"Let's go! We won't want to wake them." She pulled Sherlock out of the room and dropped his hand. Expertly shutting the door with the stealth of a mouse, she tiptoed into Sherlock's bedroom, shutting the door as soon as the detective was inside.

It was then that she let out a full volume sigh. "That was stressful!" She choked out, laughing.

Sherlock simply nodded and dropped to the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the bizarre, swimming sensation in his stomach. Molly dropped beside him and yawned.

"Are you sure about me staying here? It wouldn't be a big deal for me to go home," She explained, eying the space curiously. She hadn't ever really been in his bedroom.

Sherlock looked over at her. "No. It would be ridiculous for you to go home at this hour. You can borrow some clothes to sleep in, and I know there's an extra tooth brush somewhere." He stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, "And tomorrow, we can stop by your flat, so you can pick up some clothes for Sunday."

Molly gulped and nodded, expertly averting her gaze to not watch him undress. Instead, she began to babble about the plans for tomorrow.

"I'll make some breakfast tomorrow, and then we'll go to the park. And hopefully we'll tire Rosie out so much that she falls right asleep when we go to the cinema. Then, Alfie will—"

Sherlock dropped a stack of clothes onto her lap, cutting her off. She glanced back at the man, who had quickly changed into just a pair of pyjama bottoms and a dressing robe, no top underneath. She flushed and rose to her feet.

"We'll figure that out tomorrow, Molly. For now, get changed so we can go to sleep. John has told me horror stories about Rosie's sleeping habits, and I do fancy at least six hours of sleep," Sherlock explained, before pulling back his sheets and sliding into the bed.

Molly swallowed and nodded, before disappearing into the bathroom. Sherlock laid back, letting out a sigh of relief as his head hit the pillow. He really did desperately want a good night's sleep—not only had the day been exhausting from Molly's cleaning and dealing with John's micro-managing texts, but he knew tomorrow would be even more tiring.

He'd have to deal with children at the playground, a film in a cinema that would likely make him want to gauge his eyes out, and then, in perhaps the most aggravating event of the day, he'd have to sit through an entire football match with a rambunctious primary school student. Then, Sunday would come around, for part three, before both children would be whisked away, and Molly would return to her flat.

He wasn't sure why the thought suddenly filled him with dread. Before he could dwell on _that_ reaction, Molly strolled back in, clad in a pair of his plaid pyjama pants and an oversized white t-shirt. She dropped her clothes onto one his chairs and approached the edge of the bed, eying the piece of furniture with hesitation. She pulled at the edge of her pleat and watched Sherlock for direction.

Sensing her hesitation, he sat up and quirked an eyebrow. "Molly, just get in. This will not be the first time we share a bed."

She sighed and nodded, before sliding into the unoccupied side. She blew a loose strand away from her face and tucked her head into the pillow. "I know that. It's just—" She stopped talking and shook her head, instead burying her face into the surface.

Sherlock had a feeling he knew what she was referring to. Their bed-sharing, although infrequent, always ended with the two waking up with tangled limbs. While the first time he had woken up with Molly in his arms, he had attributed the position to tossing and turning, and perhaps the woman's own desires. However, he quickly realized that he was always the perpetrator (he went as far as to film them sleeping), for some reason always wrapping his arms around her sleeping form.

Evidently, Molly knew their morning would probably begin the same way. Instead of continuing the conversation, Sherlock shut the light off and pulled the blankets closer. He felt Molly shift in the bed, her movement followed by her soft voice.

"Sleep well, Sherlock."

-x-x-x-

He was being slowly shaken awake by an extraordinary amount of movement on the bed. He refused to open his eyes, hoping that Molly would stop whatever she was doing so he could drift back to sleep. He knew it was morning—even the brightness of the room was apparent through his closed lids.

Yet, at the feeling of something probing his face, he reached his arm up and wrapped his hand around the offending limb. Through closed eyes and with only his hands, he felt around the extremity, noting the five tiny nubs and a boney heel.

"Molly," He grumbled out, his voice half asleep, his hand still holding the foot, "You have incredibly small feet."

It then occurred to him that Molly was tucked into his chest, her hands splayed across his stomach. So, it was no surprise when her half-asleep form hummed out a "hmm?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and met the mischievous gaze of Rosamund Watson. While her god-father held one foot, her other was casually pushing Alfie off the bed, even as he continued to climb. She giggled and waved at Sherlock.

He groaned and dropped his god daughter's foot. "Molly," he began again, "there are children in my bed."

She laughed into his chest, causing another one of those blasted fuzzy feelings to take over his insides, before sitting up. She grinned at the intruders. "Good morning. Did you lot sleep well?"

Alfie groaned and stood up, crossing his arms. "I heard her climb out of her crib and open the door, so I had to follow her. As a beaver scout, it's my responsibility." He cleared his throat and puffed his chest out, "But I become a cub scout in two months."

Molly just laughed and nodded, before climbing out of the bed. She pulled on one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and smiled at the kids. "Well, I'd love to hear all about your troop, Alfie. Should I make something to eat?"

Rosie squealed and began to jump on the bed. "Hungie! Eggies! Peppa!"

"Understood! Let's turn on Peppa and then I'll start frying some stuff up, yeah?" Molly asked, before lifting Rosie into her arms.

"I like my eggs scrambled, although mummy always fries them. Can you scramble them? Do you have orange juice? Daddy has—"

Alfie's voice faded away as the trio disappeared down the hall, leaving Sherlock in the bedroom. He sat up and evaluated the space, his body paralyzed. His normally pristine bedroom, the one place in 221b that rarely had a book out of place, was littered with evidence of his guests. Molly's clothes were sitting on nightstand, one of Rosie's sippy cups and a stuffed pink, pig was now residing where Molly had slept, and for some reason, the shield of the American bloke from the movie yesterday was resting at Sherlock's feet.

And before his mind could even comprehend the situation, the melodious sound of Molly's laughter, and the telltale rambling of a young boy, and the delighted squeal of a toddler, and the undeniable smell of rashers filled his space.

These intrusions did not annoy him.

That fact petrified him.

-x-x-x-

Breakfast had been a loud, lively affair. Molly had served an excellent fry-up, not once complaining as she had to prepare eggs three different ways—scrambled for the kids, fried for Sherlock, and poached for herself. She even went as far as to make fresh orange juice, leaving Alfie to drink what seemed like a pint of the juice, and for Sherlock to wonder where she had retrieved a juicer from.

And the morning had been filled with Alfie describing all of the activities he was involved in. He was preparing to become a cub scout, played attack for his little league football team, was starting karate in a month, and was being encouraged by his father to try his hand at the local, youth theater.

Alfie then provided detailed stories about his school work, complaining about his, by all accounts, awful maths teacher, and how he enjoyed reading _James and the Giant Peach_ in his (advanced, as he so eloquently provided) reading class.

As soon as they had cleaned up and got the kids in their jackets, they had arrived at the local park. Alfie was showing off on the monkey bars, keen on demonstrating his athletic prowess to the pig-tailed girl waiting for her turn. Molly was sitting on a bench beside the sand-pit, watching Rosie play with a forgotten pail and a plastic, pink shovel.

Sherlock dropped beside her and pulled out his mobile. John had sent him a text about their day thus fair in Paris, going so far as to include a photo of him and Lydia kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower. While Sherlock snorted at the display, Molly leaned over and made an appreciative noise at the image.

"Oh, that's just adorable," she began, looking over the photo with a grin, "I'm so happy they're having fun. John deserves a good holiday."

He tucked his mobile away and rolled his eyes. "Yes, yippee for John and his new girlfriend. I just want my macarons."

Molly sighed. "Are you really that miserable with the kids, Sherlock?"

He had been watching Alfie take yet another trip across the monkey bars but stopped to turn to Molly. He frowned. "No. Why would you suggest that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes you're… You know."

 _Stand-offish. This is a lot to process, Molly._

Sherlock shifted on the bench. "I am enjoying myself. I quite like spending time with Rosie, and although I didn't know Alfie prior to yesterday, he's a pleasant child. He has interesting things to share."

Before Molly could respond, Alfie appeared in front of them, wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. She just laughed, knowing the little boy surely had something up his sleeve.

"Yes, Alfie?"

He looked to Sherlock and then to her. "Can we get ice cream? Mummy always takes me for ice cream."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Alfred, I do believe that is a lie. She explicitly told us that you were not to be given sweets."

Alfie crossed his arms and pouted. "But Gemma got ice cream. Look at her!" He pointed to the previously mentioned pig-tailed girl, who was busy on the swing set, licking away happily at an ice cream cone.

And then, in what was surely most parents' worst nightmares, Rosie piped in. "Ice cweam?" She jumped to her feet, shaking the sand off her brightly-patterned trousers, "Strawberry!"

Sherlock groaned and looked towards Molly, hoping she'd be better suited at telling the children no. While Sherlock quite enjoyed shooting down people's requests, he knew doing so to two children would likely result in a disastrous fit and many, many tears.

But, instead of the stern, rule-abiding Molly that he was expecting, his pathologist only smiled and nodded. "Yes, alright," she began, rising to her feet, "I know your mum said no, but since she's on holiday, I reckon you deserve one. And all good holidays have lots of sweets in them."

And so, to the children's delight, the group left the playground, and began their walk to the ice cream parlor. Alfie was back to babbling about his science project to Molly, and Rosie was kindly pointing out every dog they passed by to Sherlock. By the time they had reached the shop, Sherlock wanted a cone just as badly as the children did.

Alfie stood behind the glass, eying each flavor with a fierce concentration. Sherlock felt a tug at his trousers, and looked down to meet the big, blue-eyed stare of Rosamund Watson. She smiled and held out her arms.

"Up!" She instructed, bouncing on her heels. Sherlock nodded and appeased the girl, bringing her into his arms. He joined Alfie behind the glass and couldn't help but chuckle as Rosie, like the boy, studied the different flavors.

Molly smiled and joined the group. She gave Sherlock a small smile. "Well, Rosie will just pick whichever color she likes best. But what about you?" She let her eyes scan over the flavors before humming in satisfaction when she saw one particular option, "I reckon you'll pick something sweet but with an edge. Salted caramel, maybe?" She looked again and bit her lip, "Or maybe mint chocolate chip, but I think you'd prefer caramel. And with two Flakes, not one."

Sherlock blinked a few times, surprised by Molly's accurate guess. Apparently, his friend paid more attention to him than he thought. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"Yes. Salted caramel. And yourself? I know you have a penchant for going through pints of cookies and cream ice cream when you're sad."

Molly laughed and nodded. "Guilty." She brushed some hair out of Rosie's face and smiled at the little girl, "What would you like, Rosie?"

Rosie pressed her fingers (which somehow, like with all toddlers, seemed to be coated in a layer of something sticky) to the glass, grinning widely. "Strawberry!" She squealed, offering her god parents a toothy smile.

"Of course, sweetie. And you, Alfie?" Molly turned to the boy.

Alfie finally looked away from the glass and grinned. "Chocolate fudge swirl. With hundreds and thousands." He moved so he could stand next to Molly and gave her a knowing look, "Not chocolate sprinkles. I prefer hundreds and thousands."

She giggled and ruffled his hair. "Of course. Tell the lady what you want."

Sherlock watched as the kids managed to order by themselves, Molly filling in gaps of information, such as size (since Alfie was keen to ask for three scoops, which she promptly corrected) and style, (as poor little Rosie just screamed strawberry). She even ordered for Sherlock, her request exactly what the man would have ordered for himself, had he felt inclined to talk.

And once the foursome sat outside, enjoying the fresh air at a table overlooking the street, he was rather content with the morning. His ice cream was good, his _two_ Flake bars were to his liking, and Rosie had yet to spill most of her ice cream on herself.

They sat in a content silence, each munching away, until an older couple began to walk by, holding the leash of a spectacularly adorable Border Collie. Rosie, of course, announced its arrival, immediately setting her cup of ice cream on the table and jumping to the ground.

"Hi doggie!" She squealed, immediately crouching to the ground to pet the dog. Molly jumped up after her, and immediately began apologizing to the couple.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! She should know to ask," Molly began, moving to pull Rosie away. However, the couple just exchanged looks and laughed.

"Don't be ridiculous! She's welcome to pet the pup." The older women grinned and gave her dog a head rub, "This one loves the attention. Besides, she reminds me of our granddaughter."

Her husband laughed. "Yes, yes, very much like little Eliza." He looked between Molly and Sherlock, and then to the kids. "Lovely group you have here. Such a nice-looking family."

Molly swallowed and nodded, ignoring the flush at her cheeks. "Oh, well, thank you but—"

Sherlock cleared his throat and interrupted her. "Thank you. We appreciate the sentiment."

The old woman looked over to Sherlock and gasped, before eagerly patting her husband's arm. "Garth! Why, that's Sherlock Holmes! The detective from the telly!"

Garth studied the man for a moment and looked back to his wife, shaking his head. "Don't be ridiculous, Emma. Have you seen that man's interviews? As if that conceited twit would be married to a nice lady with two adorable children."

Molly bit her lip and glanced over at Sherlock, who of course mastered a look of indifference. Emma looked back to him and then to her husband.

"Of course, Garth. My eyes are deceiving me!" She looked back to Sherlock and Molly, giving them a mega-watt grin, "Besides, that poor man would be the last to settle down, if the tabloid reports about his love life are right at all!"

Garth grabbed his wife's hand and whistled for the dog, who immediately ran to his feet, abandoning its rubdown by Rosie. He smiled at the group. "Well, we won't disturb you any longer. Enjoy your afternoon!"

The couple continued their stroll, their conversation drifting away, although the group was still able to hear them discuss how the young family reminded them of themselves, and whether they thought Molly would have another child, as they themselves had four and regretted never having a fifth.

Molly cleared her throat and began to wipe at Rosie's stinky hands, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. He bit into his cone and stared at the table, considering the couple's words. While he had never previously cared about people's opinions about him, it was slightly alarming that the general public would find him unworthy of a wife like Molly and two children.

 _It's not alarming. It makes perfect sense._

 _You are unworthy._

Alfie looked between the two and smirked. As soon as he finished his cone, he jumped to his feet. "Cinema time! Can I get popcorn?"

Molly groaned and stood up. "Hungry again, are you? Where does all that food go, Alfie?"

He smirked and rubbed his belly. "Mummy doesn't let me eat bad stuff. I _have_ to eat it now. I'll make room."

Molly grabbed his hand and began to walk, Rosie in her arms. She again seamlessly began a conversation with the two, leaving Sherlock to trail behind. And as he walked behind them on the busy London streets, hearing every laugh and giggle and squeal of delight, he felt even more hollow.

-x-x-x-

As expected, the rest of the day flew by. They had seen some film about Winnie the Pooh, which Rosie had promptly fallen asleep to within twenty minutes, her sugar rush thankfully crashing rather quickly. Alfie and Molly watched eagerly, the former gorging his face full of popcorn and some sour candy he had begged for, and the latter crying over every other scene. Sherlock was scarcely paying attention, too overwhelmed with the environment in their particular screening room.

He was not alone in holding a sleeping child. In fact, upon looking around the room, he realized the entire facility was filled with families. From grandparents and grandkids, to just couples, to parents and their children, the cinema was dominated by close-knit groups. And to an outsider looking in, his ragtag group of misfits would also fit the mold.

The thought again made it difficult for him to breath. And things certainly didn't get any easier when Molly squeezed his hand and gave him a comforting smile, her chocolate eyes shining with tears from a particularly sad scene.

The cinema had been stifling, and he was incredibly happy when the film ended. They quickly dropped by Molly's flat, where both Rosie and Alfie went mad playing with Toby, before returning to Baker Street. Molly prepared them lunch, and Alfie had changed into an Arsenal shirt, screaming about different footballers and how he believed the match would play out. Sherlock had returned to his chair, watching the boy focus on the telly, and Rosie babble away with her collection of dolls.

And as he sat in his chair, it occurred to him that he had sparsely checked his mobile that day for any case requests or updates from Lestrade. Of course, given his commitment, he would never have left (unless the bloody Queen was at risk), but he was rather surprised by his overall lack of desire to check. He had only looked at his mobile earlier, when he had received the photo from John, because Molly needed him to doublecheck the cinema showing they were aiming for.

That realization would need further evaluation, preferably during a period that Alfie wasn't screaming and tossing a football into the air. And speaking of Alfie—the little boy had come prepared with extra gear, should his hosts not be die-hard Arsenal fans.

Sherlock had sported the red and white scarf for the rest of the evening. It stayed on his neck as he helped Rosie clean up her toys, as he assisted Molly with the dishes, as he gave Rosie a bubble bath, and as he tucked Alfie in to go to sleep. He had just shut the door on the sleeping children when Molly whispered his name.

"Yes?" He asked, moving back towards the living room. He dropped into his chair and rubbed at his eyes. He was exhausted, but the prospect of sleep seemed unlikely.

Molly studied him and tied the dressing robe tighter against her thin form. She smiled softly. "You know," She began, keeping her voice low as to not wake the children, "I know this isn't your thing. Taking care of kids… Well, taking care of anything really. But I just wanted to say that you're doing a good job. Rosie loves you. And even Alfie likes you."

Sherlock considered her words, dropping his gaze to the thick scarf around his neck. "I'm glad you think so. Garth and Emma, late-sixties, originally from Bristol, now in London to reside closer to their four children, originally a postman and a school teacher, didn't seem to think so."

She rolled her eyes at his deductions and couldn't help but push at his shoulder. "Since when do you care what people think? As nice as they were, they don't know you. They see a caricature of you on the news. One that shags a lot and is short with reporters and wears a funny hat."

He sighed and brought both hands to his hair, quickly ruffling the curls. "Right. Well, the weekend was certainly more enjoyable than I expected. Unless they wet the bed this evening, I think we should get out of this relatively easily."

Molly laughed. "Poor you. John may just ask us to babysit again."

For some reason, the thought had his heart soaring. "That would be a shame."

She smiled softly and stepped away. "Good night, Sherlock."

And Molly too disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sherlock alone in the sitting room. He glanced around the space, noting Rosie's bag of toys, and Alfie's discarded football, and a tiny sippy cup they must have missed when they were collecting dishes.

In less than twelve hours, those things would disappear, along with their owners and Molly. Baker Street would return to its silence (sans Sherlock's outbursts and target practice) and dreary, grey atmosphere.

And again, why the thought filled him with dread, was something he refused to dwell on.

-x-x-x-

He must have fallen asleep in his chair. Soft footsteps and the opening and closing of the refridgator had woken him up, and a glance at the clock confirmed that he had been out for at least an hour. Before he could even call out Molly's name, Alfie appeared by his side, holding a cup of water.

Sherlock expected to see a sleepy child. He was not, however, expecting to see Alfie's big, brown eyes filled with tears. Sherlock gulped.

"Alfie, are you already?" He asked softly.

The boy sniffled and wiped at his eyes, before climbing onto the chair beside Sherlock. He hiccupped and took a shaking sip of his water. "Can I ask you a question?" He whispered, before rubbing at his snotty nose with the sleeve of his now Hulk-themed pyjamas, "Everyone says you're smart."

Sherlock held in a chuckle and nodded. "Yes. I'll try to provide any knowledge I can, Alfie."

Alfie frowned and moved around on the chair, inadvertently shoving his bony elbow into Sherlock's thigh. The older man held in a hiss as Alfie began to talk. "Why did my parents stop loving each other?"

Sherlock cursed softly. "Alfie—"

"Mummy said it's natural and that it happens. And at first, I didn't mind. I got two sets of Christmas presents. It was nice," He explained, briefly pausing to sniffle, "But now, I barely see my daddy. I used to see him every day. Now I only see him twice a month."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Your mummy is right, Alfie. It is natural. Many couples get divorced. Sometimes they fall out of love. Sometimes the relationship simply isn't working. Sometimes they fall in love with other people."

Alfie frowned and studied Sherlock. "I don't want my daddy to marry Evangeline. All she does is eat veggies and cycle." He shifted and began to pull at the frayed edges of the chair, "And I don't want mummy to marry John. I know he's your friend but…"

"But what?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask.

Alfie sniffled. "He takes my mummy away. They go on trips and then I don't see her. And…" He crossed his arms and looked away, "Mummy really likes Rosie. If she marries John, she won't need me. She'll have Rosie."

Sherlock sighed and looked down at the boy, surprised to find his arm soothingly rubbing the child's back. He didn't remember starting the movement.

"Alfie, your mum loves you. And that will never change. No matter who she marries, or if you ever have siblings, her love for you will never waiver."

The boy frowned and hugged his knees to his chest. "Sherlock, I don't like the theater. I don't want to be in a play."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Then don't, Alfie. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

He shook his head. "But if I do the theater, daddy will coach me. He said he'd direct my first play."

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "Right. But perhaps, if you tell your daddy that there's something you'd rather do, he'd support you with that."

Alfie lifted his pyjama top up, showing his Arsenal shirt underneath. "I want to be a footballer." He leaned closer to Sherlock, now whispering, "Only if I can't join the Avengers."

"You know," Sherlock began, continuing to rub the boy's back, "When I was younger, I wanted to be a pirate. And then eventually, I wanted to be a detective. You know, like all of the famous literary ones. Poirot, Dupin, Father Brown—"

"Nancy Drew and the Hardy Brothers!" Alfie piped in.

Sherlock chuckled and nodded, "Yes, like Nancy Drew. I wanted to solve mysteries. I wanted to figure things out, things that normal people couldn't. But many of the other children laughed at me. Told me to be a copper. And my brother always thought it was ridiculous. He suggested a more formal route."

He couldn't help but smile at his success. "But I was persistent. And most importantly, I was good. The best, frankly. And now here I am, solving crimes for a living, as the world's only consulting detective."

He met Alfie's wide eyes and ruffled his hair. "If you want to be a footballer Alfie, then go for it. Play hard and be the best. And perhaps, one day, I'll see you over in Holloway."

Alfie grinned. "Will you like football by then?"

Sherlock chuckled. "If you're playing it, then yes, I may."

The boy pressed his head into Sherlock's chest, his eyes fluttering closed. He let out another yawn before beginning to speak again, his voice soft.

"If my mummy and John get married, will I see you a lot?" Alfie asked.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "If that's what you wanted, then of course."

Alfie yawned and shut his eyes. "Then maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Mummy and John got married."

Sherlock swallowed and watched as the boy drifted off into sleep. And with Alfie's sleeping form tucked into his own body, he found himself too tired to move. Soon, he joined the boy in a much-needed sleep.

Unbeknownst to them, Molly stood in the hallway, wiping at her wet cheeks. She too had just wanted a sip of water, and to inquire if Sherlock was going to join her in bed. She hadn't expected to walk in on such an intimate moment between the man of her dreams and the young boy, and almost felt guilty for listening in on it.

If anything, the scene broke her heart, and reminded her of something she'd never have. And while she enjoyed the weekend, she was happy it would be over in a few hours' time.

Her heart wouldn't be able to take any more of temporarily domesticated Sherlock. He was too perfect, and too dreamlike, but most of all, too unattainable.

-x-x-x-

The next morning, Sherlock stood beside Molly, watching as Alfie hugged his mother and immediately began to recount his stories of the weekend, cleverly leaving out all the sweets and junk food he had inhaled. John was back to holding Rosie, although his eyes were on Sherlock and Molly.

"Well, I knew the kids would be alright with Molly around, but I got to say I'm relieved nothing went wrong." John explained, before glancing back to Molly, "Nothing went wrong, right?"

Molly laughed. "Nothing, John. Rosie was perfect. And Alfie was incredibly well behaved too."

John let out a breath and grinned. "Good. Thank you so much. Lydia and I had such a lovely time—we went on a boat tour, and went cycling around the city, and she even got me to try escargot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Did you also share a strand of spaghetti underneath the moonlight or attach a padlock to Pont des Arts?"

His best mate sighed. "Always a pleasure to see you again, Sherlock." He held up a fancy shop bag, a Parisian bakery name across the front, "I brought you lot gifts."

He pulled two small boxes out of the bag, the clear plastic indicating that each container held two macarons. He glanced at the containers before handing one to Molly, and the other to Sherlock.

"For Molly, there's a rose one and an almond one. I almost got you chocolate, but I know you fancy the taste of rose." He smirked and glanced to Sherlock, "Now, for you mate, I got a blueberry one and a matcha one."

Sherlock growled. "Dammit John! I said no rubbish flavors! You know I can't stand either of those!"

His best mate just gave him a smug smile. "I know."

Sherlock hissed. "So, you purposely spent fifteen pounds on two macarons I won't eat? Simply as revenge for the Kit Kat?"

"Exactly."

Molly grinned and took the box from Sherlock. "I'll happily eat them."

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. "Unbelievable. You're lucky your child is cute."

Alfie scampered back over, holding a Paris snow globe in his hands. He looked to Molly and Sherlock and cleared his throat. "Thank you for letting me stay at your home. I had a lot of fun."

Molly smiled at the boy. "It was our pleasure. We had so much fun Alfie."

"We did. Thank you for joining us." Sherlock added.

Lydia grabbed her son's hand and smiled at John's friends. "Thanks again! John and I owe you dinner some time!"

Molly waved her hand. "Don't worry about it. It was our pleasure."

With a few final goodbyes, John and Lydia led the kids out of the flat. Rosie gave them eager waves, her head resting comfortably on her father's shoulder, and Alfie sent them a big grin as he departed, hand in hand with his mum. As soon as the door shut, Sherlock took a deep breath and turned to Molly.

He was hoping she'd stay for a bit, and that the two would perhaps watch some telly, or begin an experiment, but she was already tying her scarf and holding her overnight bag. Sherlock froze and watched her, a panicking sensation filling his gut.

"You're leaving already?" He asked, suddenly feeling awkward in the empty space.

Molly frowned and nodded. "I would stay, but I should change Toby's litter, and it's my brother's birthday, so I need to sit down and Skype him."

Sherlock swallowed. "I see. Very well. Have an enjoyable rest of your Sunday, Molly. Thank you for helping me with the children."

She smiled softly and shrugged. "It was nothing. I had a great time."

Molly moved to the door and opened it. With one final smile, she was gone.

Sherlock stood in the middle of his empty flat, staring at the door, swallowing the desire to call out her name. It was too quiet. He sighed and moved back to his chair, immediately deciding that babysitting two children was not something he should do again.

His weekends were better spent solving cases. Or running experiments. Or helping Mrs. Hudson fix her internet. Not… entertaining two inquisitive, innocent, playful, delightfully happy children.

But, as he moved to his chair, his eyes landed on a neatly folded red scarf, and a small note (written on a gum wrapper) sitting on top. He grabbed the fabric and sat down. His eyes dropped to the childish scribble.

 _You can wear this when I play football and you come to my match – Alfie_

He dropped the note to the ground and took a shaky breath, a tightness constructing his chest and airways. The entire weekend, a feeling on unease had controlled his senses, squeezing his heart and chasing the oxygen from his lungs. But with one look at the childish scribbles, and the deafening silence of his flat, his bodily reactions became apparent to the great Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had a hole in his chest and he knew of only one way to fill it.

The solution would take a while. And it would undoubtedly be sticky, and smelly, and loud, and temperamental, and bloody expensive. But it would also be a bandage on his soul, and an everlasting reminder of all the good in the world, and so adorably cute that even he would be unable to hide a smile.

 _A baby._

 _What an interesting development._

 **To be continued…**

 **NOTE:** Stay tuned for the sequel 😊


End file.
